Echoes
by ButterflyRogue
Summary: "it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." but in this uninhabitable world, is it sometimes better to forget? [50 prompts challenge. Jefferson-centric. Storybrooke. will probably tie-in with my previous Jefferson/Alice work, but it's primarily a Jefferson character study.]
1. embrace

**Prompt #41: Embrace**

Word count: 413

* * *

He used to think himself a good father. It was the one thing he never failed at. Sure, finances were tight more often than not, but he had always managed to make sure Grace was well fed and clothed, even if he had to go starving and barefoot himself. And she had grown up to be a happy child, satisfied with what they had and never asking for more than he could afford. He was a good father. Devoted and attentive, determined to give her all the time in the world and compensate for the big, _complete_ family she might have had, were her mother still around. He told her long, elaborate stories of brave princesses and daring adventures, took her to trips all over the region, invented various games to keep her constantly entertained, showered her with hugs and kisses so that under no circumstances, not for one moment, would she feel neglected and unloved.

He was not that good a father anymore. Years of solitude have distorted his mind beyond recognition. In these few weeks since she was his daughter again, he noticed he'd become obsessive, overbearing. He had an overwhelming urge to have her within reach at all times, never out of his sight for more than it took to blink, gripping for her hand at the slightest tinge of panic. His embraces became too tight, a desperate death grip of a drowning man, a second before he's pulled under.

His anxious gaze followed her as she stepped out of the school building surrounded by a group of giggling girls. He would not embarrass her, he told himself. He would not be her poor, mad father, so dependent on her.

She smiled when she noticed him, not unlike she did on the day of their reunion, and broke into a run, her arms spread wide. They locked firmly around his neck as he stooped down to meet her. His eyes filled with both joy and agony as he struggled to control the tightness of his grip. And then she turned her head, kissed his cheek, her scrawny little arms tightening around his shoulders with surprising strength.

She truly was his Grace in every meaning of the name, as non-demanding and understanding as ever, rapidly adapting to this run-down, damaged version of her Papa and already discovering that the only thing they both truly needed was a good, strong, loving embrace. Even if it is just a little bit too tight.


	2. maps

**Prompt #10: Writer's Choice - **_**Maps**_

Word Count: 304

* * *

Jefferson never thought drawing would be the thing he'd find himself in the most. After all, he never had much patience for art of any kind when he was younger. Alice was the one with the sense for it, the musical one, the aesthetically aware. But in this big, empty house; during these endless, frozen moments, he found a form of escape in the concentration his disorganized mind was forced into while he drew.

At first there were trees and fruit that filled his canvases. Awful, distorted shapes that bore no likeness to the models. But it wasn't long before he grew better. Memories followed – images of the world back home. Sometimes even a dazzling adventure of his portal hopping days snuck onto them. The first portrait he drew was of Grace, her sweet little face pulled in a beaming smile. Then he drew another one, and another, and another until the grinning charcoal-smudged silhouette was as lifelike an image of his daughter as it was humanely possible. Then, he finally dared to try and recreate Alice. He painted her as she stood in his memory – eyes blazing, hair flowing, sporting that smug smirk as if she was just about to say something extremely witty. It was surprisingly comforting when he realized that, after all this time, he still remembered the way her hair curled, the way her nose would scrunch up when she laughed, how he could perfectly recreate the exact shape of her lips.

Eventually, after he had filled almost his entire endless supply of empty canvases with paintings of his daughter and her mother, he discovered the activity had become an aching torture instead of relief. Alice was long gone and the hope of getting Grace back was slowly starting to leave him as well.

He turned to drawing maps instead.


	3. rememberance

******Prompt #**20: Writer's Choice - _Rememberance_

Word count: 394

* * *

"_Don't forget about me!_" she'd chime, a ginger sunbeam with a dazzling smile, before skipping off to explore whichever land the Hat had landed them into. She had a habit of wandering off, intrigued by this or that, and as much as he enjoyed spending time with her, he found keeping up tiresome so he preferred to let her on her own. "_Don't forget about me_," she'd quip each time they separated, though not without a slight anxiousness behind her smile. As if he could, as if he'd even consider it.

"_Don't forget, Papa!_", Grace would chide him regularly, her lips pursed and hands on her hips, every time he made a hasty promise he was not sure he could keep. He always did, though (_except once, except that one damn time!_), but for some reason she still felt the need to issue a warning to the reckless, irresponsible Jefferson that was still buried somewhere under the layers of his persona, though dormant and unbreathing since before she was even born.

Little Paige from the 8th house on Drury Lane assumes the same position now as she vehemently debates something with the man she is forced to call her father. An ordinary man, balding and bespectacled, who wears khaki pants and checkered flannel shirts and hides a pot belly under sweater vests in browns and beiges. Little Paige is too pretty to be _his_ daughter. The setting sun picks out the golden tones in her hair and paints them russet like the brass telescope he clutches between sweaty palms. Jefferson blinks once, twice, swallows thickly while his trembling hands disturb the instrument's focus. The glowing silhouette burns his eyes and the beautiful child looks so much like her mother he can barely stand looking at her. No, not the plump, plain-faced woman that's stepping out of that house now. Her real mother. A gentle breeze that brings sunshine and laughter. An untamed spirit of a wood nymph with the countenance of a goddess.

No, Jefferson did not forget. He will never forget. This is something he will never fail them in. The smiling faces of his daughter and her mother keep flashing behind his lids, their eyes shining with love and forgiveness, keeping that other Jefferson silent. And for a moment, for one glorious, shining moment, the Curse doesn't seem like such a curse anymore.


End file.
